


Reflections

by Emerald Embers (emeraldembers)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Jossed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-01
Updated: 2010-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldembers/pseuds/Emerald%20Embers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean's definition of 'normal' continues to be damaged, and Castiel doesn't quite grasp the concept of good books and bad books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

It's the first time they've seen each other in a fortnight.

Castiel doesn't particularly flinch when Dean decks him after being given his latest mission, or at least attempts to; even goes to turn the other cheek when Dean readies another punch.

Dean's sick to his stomach with it. With angels, demons, God and Lilith and Lucifer; sick, tired, and he just wants to be able to say "There, that's enough" and _quit_. Quit while he still has Sam, before he's another lone hunter with no family and a death wish.

Or rather, another lone hunter with no family. Claiming he doesn't have a death wish now would be a lie - the only reason he's been avoiding it because no one will damn well tell him where he's going if he dies again. He doesn't feel like he deserves to go to Heaven and he'll do whatever he can to avoid going back to Hell.

Well, close to whatever he can. He's still not giving up Sam, not for anything. He went through forty years of Hell for Sam and he doesn't want to do it again, not ever, but he'd sell his soul all over again to protect Sam and that hasn't changed.

And the angels don't care, not really. Not about Sam and Dean; just about what they could become, what they could do. For all Castiel's proving there is a God, he's taken away anything Dean might have thought to call hope or peace.

"We had to," Castiel says, and Dean can't help noticing that Castiel uses 'I' when he's being decent and 'we' when he's being a righteous _dick_. "Anna was a danger to herself and others. All those who fall are."

"Yeah, like every human out there," Dean snapped, "But hey, your boss doesn't mind ganking us. And what about Sam, while we're at it? What about him being dangerous?"

"Lilith need only break sixty six seals to set Lucifer free. Our concern is that Sam's abilities may make him a gateway to opening -"

"You don't kill gateways!" Dean yelled, cutting Castiel off, thankful for once in his life that Sam wasn't there to hear the argument even if the poor bastard in the room adjacent had to hammer on the wall for a bit of peace and quiet. "What next, huh? We - we go on staking out angels and witches, and then what, you off Sam once he stops being useful?"

"We are doing only what we're told to do," Castiel replies, eyes stern but somehow searching, "And I am doing my best to protect Sam from those who would go beyond the call of duty."

"Like your Uriel?"

"He is not mine," Castiel says, not quite defensive in tone but strangely reticent; Dean's still too angry to consider what that ought to mean.

"You knocked out my brother to try and kill a chick who didn't even know why -"

"Dean -"

"And when you come back to kill her _again_ turns out the reason why is 'cause she'd decided she wanted to feel? Forgive me if I'm still pissed at that - or don't you guys go for that forgiving shtick anymore?"

"Dean, I did not intend -"

"Get out!"

Castiel frowns before obeying, and the next door neighbour's knocking for silence is the only damn reminder Dean has that he's not alone.

.

Their next meeting is a little less heated, though Sam had a few choice words to offer before realising Castiel had come to offer help with finishing up their latest mission rather than simply handing out further orders. That eased matters - that and the fact the angel accompanying him wasn't Uriel. The encounter was blessedly brief, Castiel's latest companion quiet as he took the flasks Dean and Sam had recovered and holding them up to his nose, breathing an incantation over each after inhaling. "They have been purified," He announced before pocketing the tainted glass and walking off, the use of a blind stick making Dean really uncomfortable until Castiel explained that Samael had no sight in Heaven either; he was and always had been blind, had selected an appropriate human vessel on account.

"You're still not welcome after that last stunt you pulled," Dean grunts as he helps Sam stitch an awkward cut under his ribs gained retrieving the cursed flasks in the first place. He knows he looks overprotective like this, but he doesn't care; the angels can threaten him as much as they like, but damned if he'll let them near Sam of his own accord.

"I understand, but -"

"No you _don't_," Dean interrupts, handing the needle back to Sam to hold for a moment before his anger makes him clumsy. "You don't. Just like Anna said, you don't feel, you _can't_ -" He's shaking with repressed rage but still holding onto it, because how dare, how _dare_ Castiel make that assumption when he was still damn near a stranger as far as Dean was concerned and even Sam, even _Sam_ didn't get all of it.

It's Sam who calms him down, cutting across his angered ramble, "He doesn't want to hurt us."

"And? How long's that gonna last?"

"Who stopped Uriel punching your nose through the other side of your face, Dean?"

Dean's still twitchy, knows he's no use to anyone like this, least of all Sam. "I'm getting a beer. I want you -" And he points at Castiel for emphasis, as if it wasn't obvious who he meant, "Gone when I get back."

He storms out to the kitchen, deliberately wasting a few moments opening the beer before his return, giving himself a chance to calm down and Castiel a chance to get the Hell out. Dean had made enough abortive attempts to help Castiel, couldn't the angel just move onto someone with _actual_ potential and leave him alone?

Castiel has to know what Dean can and can't hear, but even so Dean suspects he isn't meant to overhear the tail end of the angel's conversation with Sam as he walks back to the bedroom. Castiel's gone the moment Dean opens the door, but he knows what he heard.

"He will not forgive me."

"He'll have to. You're a dick but you're good for him."

Dean doesn't ask Sam about the conversation; he knows his brother would deny it all anyway. But Sam's still gratifyingly unsettled when Dean asks how he managed to finish the stitches so neatly, and Dean busies himself with the shotgun before he can think too hard about Castiel daring to touch his brother without his permission.

.

It's written on Sam's face every damn morning now that he knows what Dean's been dreaming about. Means even a hangover isn't a decent enough distraction from what he did in Hell; alcohol isn't blitzing away the dreams and now he's given Sam the truth he can't pretend to be okay, he can't pretend to be anything _close_ to okay.

But they survive. They have to, each in their own way; Bobby had got the Hell out of dodge to cope with Dean getting the Hell out of Hell, and it seems to have worked; he doesn't keep looking at Dean as if he's part-demon, part-ghost all the damn time. Sam...

Dean hates it, but Ruby seems to be doing him some good. She'd kept Sam alive, at least, which was more than Dean had been able to do. It would have been the funniest joke of all, a classic if she hadn't been around and Dean had come back from Hell to find Sam shredded by Lilith's minions. Right up there with all His greatest jokes, like letting little girls be possessed by one of Hell's most creative bitches, like sitting back on His throne while the apocalypse approached.

Still left a bad taste in his mouth, but he doesn't have much right to complain after what he's done. All those people, and he doesn't remember their names. Didn't think to ask between shredding them. Couldn't even keep count of them after long enough.

He hates looking at Ruby with an idea of how she ended up that way and seeing himself reflected in her. Sure, it means there's some hope for him after all - but demons are still demons, still the bastards and bitches he's been smoking since he was a kid.

.

As uncomfortable moments go, it's hard to beat having Castiel and Ruby turn up at the same time in his and Sam's motel room, each with a different seal to cover.

It doesn't take much to persuade Castiel to leave Ruby and Sam to their seal while he deals with whatever Castiel wants; and as twitchy as he feels about the blue-eyed angel, at least he's made a habit of not bringing his dick of a friend along unless violence is necessary.

Dean can't resist being vocal about the relief, but Castiel only shrugs; "We have our orders, though Uriel apparently dislikes you."

"Figured that much when he was smashing my face in, thanks. Guess he hasn't got over being told where to go by a monkey."

"I suppose that would be part of it, yes."

"Suppose?" Dean asks, discomfort itching beneath his skin. "Does he - does he know what I did? Downstairs?"

"We all know," Castiel replies, tapping out an unheard rhythm against his leg before explaining, "Mostly, Uriel does not like you because I do."

Dean frowns because as weird as angels are proving to be, the idea that Castiel being fond of him pisses Uriel off more than taking orders from someone who's torn souls apart in Hell is kind of nutty. "And that's his business because..?"

"You are my weakness, Dean. He is right to be concerned."

"Tell him I'd take 'keep your paws off' better than a punch in the face." Castiel does his peculiar half-laugh at that before opening up the bag he'd brought with him and retrieving a mirror. "You're one to be dropping hints," Dean bitches, but suspects it might be slightly lost on the angel.

He's right. "The basilisk is one of many great serpents Lilith has woken from rest to set loose upon this world. Should any of them be noted by the rest of humanity it will serve as another seal."

"Right, snake-busting. Easy enough." Being abrupt is easy, but Castiel's slow temper makes provoking him feel fairly aimless. There's something irritating but kind of appropriate in the way Castiel lets comments appear to slide so he can mention them later when guilt has had a chance to settle in. If this was angelic behaviour, no wonder Catholics had guilt issues.

"Most of them, yes," Castiel agrees. "But my kind cannot touch the basilisk. Our true forms have sight in all directions, and given the basilisk's strength relies on it tainting the sight of others -"

"Sight in all directions so screwed in all directions. Gotcha. And the mirror helps because..?"

Castiel looks uncomfortable as he hands over the mirror. "The basilisk's reflection does not have the same effect as a direct stare."

"Sure, so I'll use a camcorder," Dean says, and there's a moment where Castiel looks puzzled, tilting his head as if he's recalling something, and Dean has his suspicions after watching Anna operate that Castiel's tuning into angel radio for a moment. Whatever suspicions he has are more or less confirmed when Castiel seems to return to planet Earth with a smile brighter than anything Dean's seen on the angel's face to date. Dean's not used to that level of childlike sincerity, and it's kind of creepy.

"Your kind's ingenuity is astonishing at times. Be careful."

Castiel leaves him with instructions on where he'll need to go, and even if he's lucked out on what he'll be fighting when he catches up to date - because hello, mythical serpent, how awesome can it get - he still thinks Sam won out on seals overall.

Turns out the basilisk's set up home in a sewer.

.

Sam fumes as if it's any business of his what Dean does or doesn't do once he finds out Dean's got a solo mission; gives Dean a rundown that reminds him of what he used to be like sending Sam off to school. The verbal checklist on basilisk safety - antivenom, thick clothing, axe, torch, reflective surface - gets rattled off with such a familiar pace and tone that Dean half waits for "Have you washed behind your ears?".

That much never comes, and he suspects he'd be in for even more of an earful if he weren't giving Sam the news over the phone while finding the entrance to the sewers. They're a borderline medieval effort with stone-lined tunnels and it's a small relief that even if these were once shit-stained and reeking, they've been out of use long enough that it mostly just smells like regular damp.

The weakness of a human nose does have its advantages sometimes.

"So I'm not supposed to hang around with Ruby but it's okay for you to go solo on a snake that, by the way, could turn you into stone, just because Castiel shows up out of the blue and says "Make it so"?"

"Hey, Sam? Remember that whole thing where Ruby is a demon and Castiel is an angel? Because I sure do."

"I thought you weren't talking to him?"

"Yeah, well, apparently I'm in Castiel's good books. Or he thinks he's still in mine," Dean announces over the phone, wondering how much further into the sewers he'll have to go before the reception will break up enough to warrant hanging up on Sam. Sam's annoyed over something more than Dean being a hypocrite - which he isn't, because as much as Sam keeps overlooking it, Ruby's a frigging demon - that much is obvious, and Dean really doesn't feel like dealing with that at the moment. "What?" He asks after the uncomfortable silence stretches out long enough.

"Come on, Dean, you're the one who crowbarred a demon to rescue him. Can't blame him for being confused."

"And?"

Sam's voice is somewhere between incredulous and embarrassed. "I'm not explaining that one for you, man. Work it out."

"What? The Uriel thing? Uriel's a dick, dude, even Castiel's starting to pick up on that."

"Oh forget it," Sam huffs, and Dean wants to smack him across the back of the head through the phone; settles for snapping,

"Whatever. I'll call you when I'm safe."

Sam still gets in the last word as Dean snaps the phone shut, even if it isn't much of an actual word. "Shhyeah."

.

It's an ugly son of a bitch, regardless of Dean's usual fondness for snakes. Maybe that fear spirit had stirred up a distaste for reptiles that wasn't going away; or maybe it was the fact that this thing was straight out of a bad horror movie - scaly, wider than any poisonous snake had the right to be, and through the camera it pretty much just looked like a seething mass of poison and malice, kind of like mom had been when pregnant with Sam.

He snorted at the thought before ducking as a spurt of something blacker than the overall dark around here narrowly missed the camera, catching on the sleeve of Dean's jacket and - yeah. Yeah, that was basilisk spew on his jacket and, apparently, eating through it. The acid spit stories weren't exaggerating much, then.

"Oh _Hell_ no," Dean growled before ripping the jacket off, tossing it aside and heaving the axe.

Son of a bitch wasn't so tough with its brains splattered across the sewer floor.

.

The weather was pretty appropriate for a monster-slaying hero who'd lost part of his clothing in the process; namely, miserable. If the Impala hadn't been parked so close by even the sewer would have looked like a preferable option given the burning basilisk corpse provided some heat. Thank God for small mercies in that he'd kept the Impala's keys in his back pocket on a hunch, because another mile of walking jacket-free in the rain would have meant man-flu on an epic scale, every breath of which he'd inflict on Sam with vengeful glee. Castiel too, if he weren't sure the bastard was already immune against everything by virtue of being an angel borrowing a human body.

Didn't mean he escaped completely free of harm, a steady stream of cold-induced snot crusting on his left arm as he did his damndest to steer with the right, accompanied by an equally steady stream of curses as he remembered various odds and ends he'd left in the jacket's pocket. Salt bullets, protective herbs, loose cash and a "Frederick Rodriguez"'s credit card.

Admittedly the chances of someone going down into the sewers and piecing the odds and ends together anytime this decade were slim to nil, but he'd liked that jacket, damnit.

.

Sam hasn't returned with Ruby by the time Dean returns to the motel, shock and horror, but it's got a decent rental section for anything pre-1996 and a VCR so that's something.

Cold comfort when his brother's hanging around with a demon, whether she's saved his life or not, but when everything else has gone to Hell, occasionally literally, at least Sam's got someone at his back when Dean isn't around.

He settles on Jurassic Park in the end; started the day out with theoretically extinct semi-mythological creatures, might as well stick with the theme.

He'd have to pester Castiel about the whole evolution thing someday when he wasn't more preoccupied with having a shower to remove the snot-crust, an act to be followed shortly after by taking care of the last few beers in the Impala's trunk.

.

The evening of his miniature adventure with the basilisk, post-shower and in the middle of his third beer, Dean walks in on Castiel watching the recording of the basilisk getting chopped and burned. It's funny, but watching the video all over again makes it seem even more unreal than it felt at the time - like he'd been shoved into a Ray Harryhausen movie with modern effects or something. He didn't really want to know if any more treats like that would be coming up - skeletons, minotaurs, cyclops...es...

That said, he'd dealt with harpies before, so it wasn't as unlikely as it sounded.

Moreover, he'd have to ask if Castiel had started investigating his host's memories in order to figure out how to get the camera's tape out and switch it for the one in the VCR.

Castiel's eyes were fixated on the screen to the point where it was making Dean uncomfortable, so he cleared his throat and said, "Keep staring like that and you'll give yourself square eyes."

Castiel looked up at last, tilted his head. "Your father trained you well."

"Yeah, well, he had to," Dean replied, uncomfortable with any mention of his dad from the angel's lips, even if he suspected Castiel would probably be the only person out there with good words to say.

"Very well indeed," Castiel repeats, almost to himself. "We need to talk."

"I figured from that from the whole," Dean gestures with his beer, "You sitting there thing. Kind of a dead giveaway."

"Anna was my superior, Dean." Yeah, this one had been coming for a while, but it didn't change the fact Dean didn't want to deal with it. Ever. "She was... beautiful. All the superiors are. None as -"

"Spare me the angelic romance," Dean sneers. "So you're all Tyler Durden in Heaven, I get it. And?"

"She shared a moment with you," Castiel replies, his words as precise as ever but seeming... weighted. Careful, more so than usual. "I felt it. I..."

Dean waits. The hesitance is weird, and he's increasingly uncomfortable with the fact he's pretty sure he's just been told any angel stationed on Earth at the time he was with Anna might have been able to listen. Maybe even _watch_.

"I had been her weakness, once. I think she wanted to share with us what we would not normally ask for ourselves."

Dean drains the last of his beer, needing it, before slamming it down on the chest of drawers. "Would've been nice for her to tell me she was putting that out on angel radio."

"It was involuntary. She had no control over what she could and could not show us." Castiel gets to his feet and it's only the way he unfolds that makes Dean realise he'd been crouching in front of the TV rather than sitting on the sofa. Between that and the leaning against tables, it looks like Castiel was starting to pick up a habit of perching despite earlier protests that it wasn't in the job description. "You gained something from her I have been unable to give you."

Dean bites back 'yeah, an orgasm', and instantly regrets it because Castiel moves to take up even more of his personal space, and there's a moment of 'uh?' as Castiel raises his hands and -

Oh _Hell_ no.

Dean stumbles back, panicky. "Hey, hey, it - dude, the Bible has a lot to say on why we can't do this, right?"

Castiel cocks his head to one side, frowns, puzzled. "You taught me how to shave."

"And?"

"You still haven't read it, have you?" Castiel replies. "I want this for myself," He adds, almost wincing before he moves in again and Dean doesn't get a chance to really complete his thought of _'what the..?'_ before Castiel's lips and stubble are making their mark and yeah, _'what the..?'_ doesn't quite cut it.

Castiel's tongue doesn't make an appearance but that doesn't matter as apparently Anna had been holding back on the angel tricks; when Castiel's kissing him he can't hide _anything_. It's like a full-blown Vulcan mind-meld, not that he'll ever admit to knowing what that is; there are thoughts rising to the surface he'd normally try and fuck away when he's with anyone else, thoughts he'd never admit to and that he somehow _knows_ Castiel can see, and he's naked inside and it's terrifying but Castiel's hands still cup his face with that awful tenderness and hold him in place.

It's more than his thoughts that get messed with by whatever this is, this thing that pretends to be a kiss - there are memories vivid as his own of something he's never experienced, images from impossible views, hovering over bleached white stone in bleached white lands, desert lands. He can't quite smell anything but knows somehow there's a familiar alleyway stink of piss and shit in some areas and in others there are better smells, spices and perfumes, and it's beautiful and untouchable and it's not his memory to own -

Dean pulls back from the kiss to try and wake up, finds he's scratched into Castiel's skin hard enough to tear the shirt and leave the angel bleeding, but whose fault is that? "What the Hell did you do?"

Castiel's cheeks are streaked with tears that Dean severely doubts are due to the already healing scratches, and Dean wonders for a moment if he's stolen the angel's voice along with his memories.

"Cas?"

Castiel has no real response to give, only stares at Dean before giving him a gentler kiss, one that brings only one sensation to the surface, warm and wet and comforting, and he doesn't have a chance to feel anger or resentment as he passes out.

.

Dean wakes up stiff but warm, the position he'd drifted off in less than ideal but someone having seen fit to cover him with a blanket.

Sam's sound asleep in the bed opposite his, and Dean stares at himself in the mirror as he shaves and brushes his teeth before deciding after a long moment that he must have been having one weird-ass dream. He doesn't know what the Hell brought it on, whether it's a general proximity deal or something more Freudian, but the more he thinks about Castiel's stubble scratching his skin the more he figures he'd have a rash or blood dried under his nails or _some_ sign he hadn't been dreaming.

When Castiel doesn't make an appearance over the weekend, Dean takes it as confirmation it was a dream; moreover, confirmation the angels are too busy with other seals to give him a mission. Sam's all over that already, given he's been looking over the local asylum's admission reports after Bobby pointed out a possible case of possession, and it looks like little bro's discovered something that isn't a demon but definitely fits their idea of 'interesting'.

Each victim has different symptoms, but there's a thread connecting them all; a thread that reminds Dean of old times, makes him long for them.

Every last victim blames their mirror for what they've seen or done.

.

Problem is, the victims haven't all had the same mirror. Whatever this nasty little creature is, it's been moving from place to place, same as Bloody Mary used to. It means he and Sam are stuck playing detective while they try to find a pattern so they can track down what they need to torch or smash.

Nothing stands out at first, apart from the victims being from roughly the same age range. The people who've been attacked come from all walks of life; there are guys and girls from pretty much every racial, sexual and social background going. It doesn't look like it's on any sort of mission. Even looking deeper doesn't give much more of a clue, although it finally uncovers one more common thread; everyone attacked had at least one grandparent in this town.

Thankfully, even if the town didn't have a newspaper until the seventies, the town records are pretty thorough; Sam works his way into the clerk's affections easily enough and returns with photocopies of births and deaths going back into the early twenties.

From there it's just a matter of chucking irrelevant births and deaths into the wastepaper basket and getting Sam to look up anything that said 'homicide', 'suicide' or 'ye olde demonic infection'.

Dean tried to ignore the happy little skip of a heartbeat when Sam looked up from his laptop and said "I think we've got her", although he failed to hide his grin when Sam span the laptop around with obvious pride. It had been way too long since he last got to take advantage of Sam's brains, and way too long since Sam had been able to take pride in them.

The history is typically tragic and unpleasant, but given this spirit has an M.O. of driving people mad rather than killing them, it's about as close to light relief as they ever get with a case. "Clarabell Dickson, classic schizophrenia case," Sam summarises to save Dean reading the whole article. "Parents were dead and the grandparents didn't want the neighbours to know so they locked her in the attic. Poor girl kept screaming about demons coming to get her, wound up hanging herself with her own dress."

"Let me guess; room full of mirrors?"

"No mention of mirrors, but I'm willing to bet if we visit the Dicksons we'll find ourselves an abandoned attic they've meant to clear out for years."

Dean nodded, then tilted his head. "Okay, so we've got the M.O., we've got the death, but what's the motive?"

"Girl spent her life locked in the attic, Dean. She doesn't need much more of a motive." Both of them looked back at the picture, the attic window making a tragic and oppressive figure, and Sam's eyes widened for a second before he frowned. "My guess? She's probably been going for the grandkids of anyone she saw walking past that window."

"Kind of a leap," Dean said, chewing his lip before shrugging. "What the Hell. It worked for Batman. Lets find and smoke this bitch, huh?"

.

Dean loves the fact that a case where he has Sam distract the parents while he breaks in through the attic window counts as _normal_. Turns out Clarabell's ashes are long since scattered, the move of a cemetery in the area leaving relatives with the option of moving the bones or having them cremated; Clarabell's nieces and nephews had been quite sensibly on the superstitious side when it came to disturbing a burial site.

Pretty much confirmed that she'd been clinging to a mirror, or at the very least a reflection; and it was only after sliding through the open window that Dean clicks he'd been slightly retarded in assuming he hadn't been about to get chopped in two by the window slamming shut.

Still, he was in the room now; and even if the attic had been abandoned, someone had been eager to cover up anything inside it.

Dean was seven years old when he saw his first ghost, but he's seen too many movies to be entirely comfortable around mysterious objects covered in white sheets. Most of the odds and ends give themselves away by shape - a chest of drawers, a sofa, a grandfather clock - but soon enough he's narrowed it down to three possibles, and he takes a breath before lifting the sheet with the barrel of the shotgun, bracing himself, remembering this thing's driven people mad. People used to normality, fair enough, but even so.

Dean looks in the uncovered mirror and starts for a second before laughing.

It's not scary anymore. It's _old_. It's dull, it's pedestrian, and Aleister would have pissed himself at how _ordinary_ it is.

"Been there, done that," he tells the demon reflected in the mirror, but his stomach twists when it raises both hands to its neck.

The man in the mirror starts coughing and Dean follows, straining for air, and turning away doesn't help; he grasps for his duffel bag, unzips it, grabs the salt gun and the glint of what he's hoping will be his saviour. It's only a hunch but damnit, it's worked before and he's never questioned wrought iron or salt; he shuts his eyes and holds Castiel's mirror up to hers. "Enjoy the view, sweetheart."

The shrieks are unearthly but he waits for them to subside, waits until the silence has been long enough for him to be sure, before he looks back into hers.

Nausea twists his stomach, but he's seen worse and he's got a job to do.

"You are one ugly bitch," Dean mutters before putting Castiel's mirror down and blasting the salt gun into hers.

.

They burn the frame afterwards, Dean having grabbed the remains of the mirror and hauled ass as soon as he realised the attention the salt gun blast would bring in an occupied house; Sam was still a little sulky about the fact he'd nearly been arrested over the whole thing, especially given how any arrest of either of them was likely to end.

"You see a demon too, huh?" Sam asks as they watch the wood burning, standing shoulder to shoulder, fire a weird comfort given it had taken so much of what they loved away.

"How'd you know?"

"Spirits get kind of predictable after a while, I guess," Sam says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You get black eyes or yellow?"

"Red, actually," Dean replies before stamping out the last of the flames, the mirror's remains well and truly charred. The black humour of the mirror bitch's choice doesn't go unrecognised.

He salts the ashes out of habit, but knows that nasty little pain in the ass is already gone for good.

.

It's a full week before Castiel makes another appearance, enough to get Dean antsy that maybe the angel was missing for a reason, but it's typical enough that when ol' blue-eyes makes another appearance it's with the words, "We have a mission for you."

Dean wonders if he'll ever get the chance to train Castiel up on using 'please' and 'thank you'. The angel looks a little worse for wear, stubble grown in thick and lips chapped worse than ever, and it's distracting. Courtesy of that damned dream he keeps looking at Castiel's lips and wanting to lick them until the skin softens, and it's pissing him off because it's not Castiel's _body_, it's a vessel - it's some poor bastard being ridden whether the riding is voluntary or not.

"Got anything more specific?"

"We need you to break into a museum and recover a hex bag from the Egyptian exhibit," Castiel says, looking puzzled when Dean laughs out loud.

"Nice, a reverse Indiana Jones. What's so important about this hex bag?"

"Aside from it afflicting humans without discrimination and ruining their lives?"

"I want to know the Biblical scale of this thing," Dean replies. "Why your kind are interested."

"The Egyptians had a talent for preservation," Castiel says, and Dean gestures for the angel to continue; he knows that much already from history channels when there's freeview cable but no porn. "And there are herbs in that bag that should have been cleansed from the Earth hundreds of years ago. Herbs that need to be cleansed."

"Anti-angel juju or something?"

Castiel goes quiet, doesn't shake his head or nod, but Dean figures he's hit pretty close to the mark with that guess.

It's an uncomfortable silence, so Dean clears his throat before opening up his duffel bag and pulling out Castiel's mirror. "Thanks for this, by the way. Ended up saving my life after all. Or whatever's left of my sanity, anyway."

Castiel doesn't look much more comfortable as he takes the mirror, laying it flat on the bedside table next to the complimentary odds and ends before he finally says after tapping out a loose rhythm on the wood, "When we last talked -"

"Yeah, sorry about ripping into Uriel again. But you've gotta admit, he is a dick. Especially next to you and Anna."

"That is not what I meant." Castiel looks up and Dean's mouth goes dry as the pit of his stomach falls out, because _oh shit_. That look is worryingly familiar.

"That, uh - that wasn't a dream?"

"I didn't ask your permission," Castiel replies. "I know your kind places a lot of importance on permission, and -"

"Hey, it's, uh, cool," Dean interrupts rapidly, stammering out anything to avoid dealing with this directly. "I mean, it's not like you mouth-raped me or something. It was just a, you know, kiss." Except it wasn't, he hadn't been dreaming and whatever Castiel had done was more than just spit-swapping, and, again, _oh shit_.

"I invaded your memories," Castiel says, and Dean really doesn't want to meet the angel's eyes ever again after this. "You have led a difficult life, for a human."

Yeah, 'difficult' about sums it up, the same way 'awkward' adequately describes this moment. Castiel's got a nice little knack for underestimating there. "I'd really, really not like to go there, ever."

Castiel pushes himself away from the table, walks over to Dean and ducks his head slightly to force his way into Dean's line of vision. "I'm sorry for what you have suffered."

"Appreciate it," Dean lies, willing Castiel to leave him the Hell alone, but those blue on blue eyes demand his attention and he can't honestly pretend it's anything but his decision to kiss Castiel again.

The angel's lips are dry and have to be sore as Dean licks at them, and it's insane but he actually has to say "Open up, dude," to get Castiel to part them.

It's worth the effort; Castiel's clearly never been french-kissed before and Dean can't help making a weird little grunt in response to that, in response to the fact he's the one left teaching Castiel what a human tongue can do, and he actually gets a little carried away with himself until he grips Castiel's ass, pulls him close, and is abruptly reminded that not only is he kissing a dude rather than a chick with stubble, but the hardness pressing through black pants doesn't technically belong to Castiel.

Easy to forget the rules when kissing, but anything else? Hell no.

Castiel is flushed when Dean pushes him away, cheeks and neck and what's visible of his chest tinged pink, and it's a physical effort to stop himself throwing the angel up against the wall and fucking him senseless against all better judgement.

"This isn't you, we shouldn't be, no," Dean manages to get out. "Not your vessel."

"David is resting," Castiel says as if this explains and excuses everything, and Dean hates his body for not caring who's in the vessel at the moment.

"It's not right, Cas, you know about permission -"

Castiel lowers his eyes for a moment. "I did not mean David was resting in here."

Dean goes to speak about three times before giving up, his mind racing with the fact these are excuses, they're all just _excuses_, it's still somnophilia or necrophilia or just-weird-and-_wrong_-ophilia but it doesn't change the fact Dean wants to know every last inch of Castiel. He wants to fuck his mouth and his ass and his hands, wants to see how an angel comes. He's seen scores of girls' orgasm faces, one or two dudes, even Sam's once by accident and he's kind of ticked off at _that_ unwanted memory making an appearance, and he _needs_ to know Castiel's.

Dean tries to think back to how he felt when he first found out about Ruby and Sam, tries to hold onto that disgust and distaste, but Castiel's slipping out of his coat and his pants and Dean can't think about anything other than the man, the angel standing in front of him in socks and shirt and tie. It's ridiculous, like something out of Risky Business.

Dean pulls the shirt up and the loose tie off with it, Castiel's ever-ruffled hair looking even sillier after being disrupted further by the stripping. He's still wearing the socks; never had to learn the trick of toeing them off.

This is the person who saved Dean from Hell.

Dean can't help but laugh at that idea quickly before Castiel's lips silence him, the angel's eyes closed as his hands slip beneath Dean's vest to help ease it up and off with Dean's shirt, and there's something strangely synchronised in what should have been a clumsy stumble back towards the bed.

Dean usually avoids using the motel rooms for his conquests but he's got no choice here, and the crappy, half-clean sheets will have to do. It doesn't really matter anyway, not really, not with Castiel's hands hot and determined on his skin, pulling his jeans off in one swift, efficient movement. Dean thinks for a moment he should have something to say but nothing will come, for the life of him he can't think past what they're doing here. Castiel's vessel is beautiful in how different it is from anyone Dean's been with before, male but soft with the luxury of never having had to fight until now, muscles still hidden beneath a layer of fat that's been rapidly thinning while Castiel shapes this body into a warrior's.

It's not quite there, though, and Dean pulls Castiel into his lap and grips the angel's hips, his hands uncertain for the first time in what feels like forever, and he can't help noticing a neatly darned hole in the bottom of Castiel's left sock. It's a stupid thing to register but the small details help him cope with the bigger picture, the way the angel's chapped lips are wet and slightly parted, his eyes as intense as ever, the way if Dean looks into them for too long things click into place that hadn't before because he was too wrapped up in himself. Things like those out of place memories from their first kiss, where they're from, why Castiel has this depth of faith. Things like how old Castiel really is. "You were watching," Dean says. "Two thousand years ago. You -"

"Yes," Castiel replies before kissing Dean again, and Dean glimpses it all again, memories that are not his, a world he'll never know, and God, oh God, Castiel can't give him this -

Dean pulls back from the kiss shaking with something that's caught between relief and desperation, and Castiel holds him. "You saw him. _The Him._"

"He loved your kind."

"Oh God."

"Yes." Castiel's kiss is softer now, not the flood of memories from before, just an ordinary, human kiss, and Dean feels himself turn to putty under the angel's hands as they nudge him into lying down. "That is what I fight for. That is why I fight."

For a moment Castiel's eyes don't quite seem human and Dean panics, half expecting his own to go up in flames, before he realises they're still the host's; they just happen to be showing an emotion he can't begin to recognise.

But he wants to. God knows he wants to.

The next kisses are hungry but they're not what matters; what matters is Castiel's hands reaching across to the bedside table to retrieve the complimentary bottle of massage oil, what matters is Castiel slicking the makeshift lube over his cock, and the way even if Castiel's not the one being touched he's still the one panting for breath between kisses, shifting over him and -

Dean gasps like an asthmatic about to have an attack when Castiel takes him in. No warning, no queries about condoms, and Dean's glad the motel's cheap because he can't do anything but cry out at how goddamn _good_, how impossibly good and tight Castiel feels, until he's struck dumb by the angel pressing a finger still oil-slick against his lips. Castiel's face goes from pain to concentration before he starts to move, rocking gently to start off with, and that's it, Dean's going to die, again, here on this bed because nothing should feel this good and be survivable.

Castiel takes only a few more moments to settle into a rhythm before nodding and Dean doesn't need any further encouragement to regain his grip on the angel's hips and start matching him movement for movement. Castiel won't close his eyes though, and Dean doesn't know what to do under that gaze, doesn't know what to do until Castiel closes one of his hands over Dean's at his hip, says, "I understand."

Dean's instinctive response to anyone who says that to him has always, always been to punch them, at the very least threaten them, but this time, this time he believes it and it's better and worse than any 'I love you' because no one's ever known him. They didn't know what to say to a pre-schooler whose mother had burnt to death, didn't know what to say to a teenager whose skills were lockpicking, shooting and hustling, and they certainly didn't know what to say to a man who'd come back from Hell.

Castiel hadn't said 'I understand' to fix things, to make them better. He said it because he meant it.

It was too much. That and the way firm legs gripped him like a vice; and he returned that favour gladly with his free hand, stroking Castiel's cock and getting closer to coming with every little sound Castiel made in response. The angel didn't exaggerate or hide anything, going from quiet to loud to quiet again, and God, this angel, this was someone who had figured more of Dean out in weeks than most people managed in years.

Dean hadn't felt anything close to worthy in an age but he could still manage pride; pride in the fact Castiel came first, and with enthusiasm. Only by seconds though, because how could he do anything other than come like he was being _milked_ with the way Castiel tightened, the way his cock pulsed in Dean's hand, and his _face_, naked and unsheltered as if he hadn't...

It was that realisation that had sealed the deal. Dean was watching an angel have their first orgasm. Ever. And Castiel's face had _shown_ that inexperience.

.

It was strange seeing Castiel looking even close to uncertain; thoughtful, confused he could recall, but not indecisive. "I feel very tired," Castiel says after a long moment of peace and quiet, and Dean knows he's going to regret not showering in the morning but damnit, he shares the angel's sentiments.

"Same here."

Dean hears a faint flutter of wings he can't see but grabs Castiel's hand before the angel can disappear just yet.

"Uriel'll be pissed."

"He is not my commander," Castiel replies, touching his wrist as Dean lets go before disappearing in a blink. Dean doesn't need to look to know the clothes are gone too.

Strangely, he doesn't mind. And he sleeps like a log.

.

The End


End file.
